


Triolisme

by Lisztful



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisztful/pseuds/Lisztful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sybil and Branson leave for Ireland, they do not go alone.  This is what happens, after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triolisme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetmog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/gifts).



> Thanks to I and F for the swift and fabulous beta reads, and E for the encouragement that helped make this story a reality. Sunsetmog, happy holidays! I hope this story is everything you wanted. I saw your note about Sybil/Tom/Gwen, and it really interested me. I hope it's the kind of dynamic that you were looking for!

During the war, Sybil sees Gwen at least once-weekly. They meet at mid-day if they can both escape from their jobs, or early in the morning if they have gone too long without a visit. It's easy for Sybil to slip out a bit earlier than usual; everyone is mystified by Sybil's dedication to the hospital anyway, so if they notice at all, they no doubt think she's starting her shift early.

Sybil doesn't know why she hides these little visits with Gwen. It isn't as though her family would be angry with her. They weren't too fussed over Gwen leaving, in fact her father seemed particularly pleased to see Gwen making a living with her mind. So she isn't hiding these moments out of shame. Rather, she secrets them away like rationed chocolate or a very good book. They're the one thing in her life that is hers alone, and Sybil finds that she does not wish to give that up.

Then there's Branson. Sybil cannot deny that she loves him. She has no wish to deny it, although perhaps if she had a little more sense she would wish it. It's a love that makes her chest feel tight with want, an electricity that lights her from within. Sometimes they stand close, much closer than they need to or really ought to, and Sybil feels that frisson of something that she cannot quite name. It makes her feel that if Branson were to touch her, or even just to tell her what he wanted from her, Sybil would do it. Branson never asks, though, and Sybil loves that about him too.

It's a chill, wan Saturday when Sybil tells Gwen about Branson, or Tom, as he has asked her to call him. The ground is still wet from a night of steady rain, and the sky looks pale, as though drained of all its energy by the storm. The wind has a cold bite to it, and Sybil draws her too-light shawl closer and ducks her head against the chill. Soon she'll be with Gwen, and there will be hot tea and a warm hearth. She's not sure why it's so important to share her secret with Gwen, since she could barely find the words to talk to Tom about it. It is, though, and Sybil can't wait for it to be done.

Gwen lives in a boarding house for young ladies now. It's all terribly modern, and Auntie most certainly would not approve. However the other girls in the house are quiet and hard-working. Sybil has met a seamstress, a few women who tidy up shops and store-fronts, and a handful of factory girls. They're all friendly enough, and Sybil doesn't tell them that she isn't a working girl just like them. Gwen doesn't mention it either.

Gwen's room is pleasantly warm, compared to outside. Sybil casts an eye around her by-now familiar surroundings before settling into a chair. It's simple enough, but clean and bright and somehow inviting. Gwen has a pile of mismatched furniture; a scarred walnut table beside her bed holding a pitcher of washing water, a somewhat pleasingly ugly constellation of scraps and bits sewn into a heavy quilt upon the metal-framed bed, a pile of cushions embroidered with pink roses here and there, and a handful of chairs in varying colours and sizes making the room feel invitingly close. Sybil leans back into her favourite chair, a mint-green thing all faded and worn, but still sturdy. She likes this place, but maybe that's just because it belongs to Gwen.

There's a soft clinking noise from behind her, then Gwen appears with a teacup, juddering a little upon its saucer.

“I asked Mrs. Harrison if we might take tea up here,” she says, handing it over. “I thought you would like something warm.”

Sybil nods absently, gazing down at her tea. It feels wonderful against her hands, the steam soothing away the lingering chill.

“May I tell you something in confidence?” Sybil asks, quietly.

Gwen's look is inquisitive, but open. “Of course,” she says easily.

“It's Branson,” Sybil says carefully. “He-- I—” she flounders for a moment, unsure how to proceed. “Well, I love him, and he has made it quite clear that he loves me.”

She ducks her head again almost immediately, but for just a moment she catches sight of Gwen's face. It is unreadable.

“You don't sound happy about this,” Gwen says quietly, after a pause.

“It's not that,” Sybil says, sighing. “You know as well as do I that my family would be horrified if they knew.”

“Are you horrified?” Gwen asks. There is no judgement in her tone.

“I...” Sybil stops, considering. Had she told anyone else this much of her secret, she'd certainly not say any more. This is Gwen, though. She has always been different.

“No,” Sybil says finally. “I'm not. I don't see how I could go back to life as it was before the war. None of us could, although Mama will try for as long as she can. It's all so horrid, but this is the first time I've ever really been useful. How could I go back to my old life when I know now that I can be helpful to others?”

Gwen nods slowly. “That does not concern Branson, though.”

“I know,” Sybil says, “But he is part of it. Branson has always sought to understand me as I am, not for my family or my wealth. He listens to me. Nobody else has ever done that for me,” she says softly, “Except you.”

Gwen flushes a little, ducking her head. “You're too kind.”

Sybil hears the _my lady_ that Gwen fights not to add, and hates it. “I'm not though,” she says honestly. “You found your way in the world before I ever thought of it. Do not believe me naïve. I know that my circumstances were much different from your own. Believe me, though, when I say that I find you as courageous as the greatest heroes of this war.”

Gwen blushes again, a reaction that Sybil finds oddly pleasing. She doesn't have time to reflect upon it, though, because Gwen replies, “Lets hear more about your fine gentleman, then. When did it start? Tell me everything.”

Sybil does.

After that, the duties of the war overtake her. She still visits Gwen, though, and whenever she does, Sybil is reminded of their shared secret, and warmed by it.

“Haven't you any young man?” she asks one day. It's unusually cold in the boarding house, so they're huddled beneath Gwen's patchwork quilt like children playing make-believe. Sybil's clothes will be horribly mussed when she returns to work, but she cannot bring herself to care.

Gwen laughs in response, a short, almost sharp sound. “I don't have time for that,” she says, but she sounds a little uneasy.

“No dashing soldier to write long letters to?” Sybil teases.

“I spend all my time taking down people's dictations,” Gwen replies, shifting restlessly beneath the blanket. It pulls away from Sybil's back, letting in a slice of cold air. She shivers and draws closer. “I hardly want to spend any more time on writing.” Gwen looks stiff and uncomfortable, all of a sudden.

“I didn't mean to pry,” Sybil says awkwardly, staring down at her hands.

“You weren't,” Gwen says quietly. “I'm just tired. The war wears on all of our spirits.”

It still doesn't sound quite right, but Sybil doesn't say anything more.

**

In the end, Sybil is relieved to tell her family about the engagement, not at Branson's urging or that of her sisters', but because of her own impatience. She still wonders if eloping might have been preferable, but it is a relief not to have to leave her family on poor terms. As everyone receives word that the war is over, Sybil watches her family gaze longingly at their home, fantasizing about having a place free of wounded men, aired out from that antiseptic smell of medicines and filled instead with flowers in the cut glass vases, extra courses at dinner, and fine dresses in brighter colours than they've worn all throughout the war. It makes Sybil feel ill, seeing her family's desire to cover up the war times like an unsightly scar. She cannot sleep for the heavy weight of dread that fills her. Returning to her old life is beyond imagining.

She slips out of the house late at night, the evening after they tell her family about the engagement, meeting Branson down by the car. He's without his coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up above his strong arms. He's polishing the car with slow, thoughtful strokes, quietly intent.

“It's the middle of the night,” Sybil says quietly. “Surely this could have waited for morning.”

“I don't mind,” Branson says softly. “It's strange; I used to believe that no man ought ever to be in servitude to another, but now I feel I've taken on a debt that I can never repay. It seemed like the least I could do, after all that's happened.”

“I'm not a purchase you've made on credit,” Sybil replies. “I'm marrying you because I wish to. I do have a say in this, you know.”

“And I wish to marry you, more than anything,” Branson says. “Not to-- not to purchase you. But will you truly be happy with me? Our life will be very different from everything that you have known.”

He looks very serious, his features drawn, his hair slipping forward to shadow his brow. Sybil can't help grinning. “I certainly hope it shall,” she says. “I would like nothing more than to be given a fresh start. When we arrive in Ireland, I intend to begin living life for myself, not being cared for like an infant. I'll find work. I'll help.”

“I fear you'll have to,” Branson replies. He still looks serious, but the tension has eased from his shoulders. “I will find what work I can if my journalist's pay is not enough, but it will not be easy. I don't wish for you to be disappointed with me.”

“I'm going away with you for you,” Sybil says. “Not for titles or lands or fine cars that my family will surely invent for you, when they tell their friends where I've gone.”

“I don't know if I will ever understand it,” Branson says, stepping close enough to brush the cuff of her sleeve. His hand feels warm and work-rough against her wrist, and she leans into the touch, her pulse leaping at the contact. “But I will promise to love you and care for you always.” He leans in close enough that Sybil can gaze at the tiny curve at the corner of his lips as he smiles at her.

“And I you,” Sybil replies easily, and tilts her head so Branson can kiss her.

Sybil isn't frightened to leave, until her last week at Downton dawns and abruptly she is terrified. She slips out of bed feeling clammy and short of breath, her chest tight. She's half-dressed before she has the chance to think about it, and she's across the village in no time at all.

It's very early, but the factory girls are already awake, puttering about with the kettle and chattering about the week ahead. One of them, a lively, bright-cheeked girl, is leaning out the window to smoke a cigarette. She grins conspiratorially, exhaling a mouthful of smoke away from Sybil. “The tobacconist thinks they're for my young man,” she says, smiling broadly. “But I haven't got one.”

Sybil laughs, not sure what to say. “Don't let Mrs. H catch you.” The boarding-house's owner does not take kindly to smoking.

“As long as you keep my secret I'll be all right,” the girl says, and winks. “Here to see your secretary girl?”

Sybil nods.

“I'll come around and unlock the door,” the girl says. She tosses the end of her cigarette out the window and motions for Sybil to crush it beneath the heel of her shoe. She does. She doesn't know why, but she feels a little breathless. It must be the smoke. She's not used to it.

The door opens, and the girl gestures her through with a hand on Sybil's back. “Mind you be gentle in waking her up now,” she says, still grinning. “Gwen doesn't have to be up as early as us workhouse girls.”

As she climbs the stairs to Gwen's room, Sybil considers the other girl's words. She doesn't know what, but she's certain she was missing something.

A light tap on her door reveals Gwen, looking tousled and rosy-cheeked in her night shift. If she's surprised to see Sybil she doesn't show it. Instead, she ushers Sybil in and shuts the door against the cold of the hallway, hustling back to bed. She pats the space beside her and Sybil sits down, leaning back against Gwen's pillow. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back against the cracked plaster of the wall. “I'm afraid.”

“I'd be worried if you weren't,” Gwen says. Sybil feels her shifting into a more comfortable position, stretching her legs. At Downton, Gwen had always seemed so small and proper, tightly wrapped in apron and cap. Here, she's all limbs and cheerful energy, taking up space like she never did before. Sybil likes it.

“It's not that I don't want to go,” Sybil continues. “It's just that I don't know what will happen when I do. Branson will be the only person I know in the world.” She turns to face Gwen, and she's speaking before she has a chance to think about it. “If only you could go with us,” she says, and it comes out in a rush. “Everything would be all right if you were with me.”

“Your corset's done up all wrong,” Gwen says softly. “It must be awfully uncomfortable. Let me fix it.” She stands up, the light catching and spilling golden fire where her hair has slipped free of its plait. Her hands are slow and steady on Sybil's back, unhooking her dress and loosening the awkward bunching of her hastily donned corset. Sybil sighs as the tension lessens, leaning back against Gwen's touch.

“You ought to think about wearing a girdle instead,” Gwen says quietly. “You can put them on by yourself, and they don't hold you in so tightly. I'll have to help you buy one, once we go to Ireland.”

It takes a moment for Sybil to understand, but when she does she twists into Gwen's arms, hugging her fiercely. “Do you really mean it?”

“I do,” Gwen, says, and hugs her back, her hair fluttering against Sybil's throat. She's so soft against the unforgiving lines of Sybil's corset, and Sybil is reluctant to let her go.

That's how Sybil finds herself on a train and then a boat, Branson on one side of her and Gwen on the other. Tom has a job awaiting him at a local newspaper, and Gwen has been transferred to another branch of the telephone company's offices. Sybil is armed with a letter of reference penned by Dr. Clarkson, which carefully neglects to mention her family name. She feels weary and gritty with the dirt of travel, but Branson's hand is clasped around hers, warm and solid, and Gwen stays close by her side too, a hand upon Sybil's elbow. Surely Sybil will be safe, with her two guides to protect her.

Tom's mother lives in a small, weathered house in the centre of town. The streets are cobbled, so the horses and occasional cars that pass it by rattle loudly, shaking the windows in their frames. Sybil isn't sure what to think of it all, so she doesn't think anything at all. She just takes it in.

Branson's mother is a surprisingly bright, fiery woman whose eyes are luminous even though her back is bowed from years of labour. She embraces them all, her starched collar scratchy against Sybil's cheek. “This was made before the factories took over everything,” she tells them, her expression severe. “It belonged to my mother. Used to be women made all these things, but now it's all done by machines, and them ruled over by menfolk. See what they made of this world?” Her gaze is warm, conspiratorial, and Sybil likes her instantly.

“I see the war hasn't dulled your political instincts,” Branson says, smiling. “Sybil supports the cause of the suffragettes, as well.”

“Well then Sybil has her wits about her,” Mrs. Branson says. “Now you will all call me Dottie, except for Tom, who shall lose his head if he tries. Would you all like something to eat? You must be hungry.”

“Thank you,” Sybil says, “But you must let me help you. I didn't come here to be waited upon.”

“Nonsense,” Dottie replies smartly. “There will be time enough for that. For now, Tom knows his way around this kitchen better than any of you, so it's his aid I'll require. Girls, you'll find your room at the top of the stairs. It's not much, but it's walls and a door away from my old eyes. Young people should have some air to breathe for themselves. Tom, I'm afraid it's the hearthstones for you.”

Branson nods and smiles, and he and his mother leave to set out the tea.

“I suppose we ought to take our things upstairs,” Sybil says, after a moment. Gwen nods, and they trundle up the narrow, rickety stairs clutching their bags in their arms. The room is small and old, but Sybil doesn't mind. The wooden walls are worn smooth but for patches of paste where they must once have been papered with some sort of covering. There is a small writing desk in one corner, a battered chair beside a small case of books opposite it. The bed, narrow as it is, takes up most of the space. The headboard is missing some of its paste-wood adornment, which shows up in pale relief against the once-polished wood. It looks solid enough, though, and even nicer once Gwen lays her homely quilt over the top of it. _Yes_ , Sybil thinks, staring down at the shattered, colourful pattern of the old quilt. At least until they are able to find their own rooms somewhere, this place could be home.

“Things are getting rough here,” Dottie says, over tea. “Leave off the suffragettes entirely, and the factory men taking their jobs back. Ever since the declaration, it's been difficult to leave one's house at night.”

“Revolutionaries?” Sybil asks, around her biscuit.

“The black and tan boys, more like,” Dottie replies, topping off her tea. “Leftovers from the British Army,” she clarifies, at Gwen's curious noise. “They haven't anywhere else to go, so they've been shipped in here to keep the peace. Keep their cups full of cider is more like it, though. I should rather face a revolutionary's pistol than a brace of those drunkards,” Dottie finishes darkly. “These are difficult times.”

“But there will be a great deal to write about,” Branson comments quietly. “I only hope we'll be able to print the truth.”

“I hope it too, my boy,” Dottie says, and turns the conversation to other matters. It stays with Sybil, though, the notion that this is not at all like her old home.

They go to bed early, sobered by news of the rioting. Sybil tosses in bed for a few moments before giving in and throwing on her dressing gown. Gwen is perched at the desk reading a handful of pamphlets, and she grins and motions her out the door. “Careful of the stairs,” she cautions. Sybil wonders what she's reading, but the light is too dim for her to make out the cheaply inked text. It isn't any of her business, anyway.

Downstairs, Branson is sitting up in his nest of blankets, staring at the cold hearth. Sybil slips in beside him, tucking the covers up around herself. She feels strangely light and free. She could do anything she wanted right now, and there would be nobody here to disapprove of her.

If Tom is surprised, he doesn't show it. He wraps an arm around Sybil's shoulders and draws her closer, leaning his chin upon the top of her head.

“I knew things were bad,” he says quietly, “But I didn't know how bad.”

“What will you do about it?” Sybil asks. It comes out muffled against Tom's shirt.

“Write about it, I suppose,” he replies. “What else can be done?”

“Almost anything,” Sybil replies. “Surely you haven't forgotten your wish to become a politician.”

“No,” Tom says. “I haven't forgotten. But if I get myself killed in a riot, what will you do? And what about Gwen? I'm not alone in this anymore.”

“Gwen and I would fend for ourselves,” Sybil answers smartly. “But you're right that I don't wish for you to be killed. We haven't even been properly married yet.”

“As soon as we have a little money,” Tom says ruefully, ducking his chin against her hair. “I'd like to be able to support you. Isn't this a bit improper, Miss Crowley?” he adds, although he doesn't seem keen to let her go.

“I really could not find it in myself to care,” Sybil says easily, and finds that it is true. “Who's going to stop us? Anyway, we shall just have to support one another. Tomorrow Gwen and I are going to inquire after a secretary's position in a doctor's offices. Gwen has been teaching me to type. She says it's not so different from playing the piano, but I hope not because I'm rubbish at that.”

“And I shall go off to work tomorrow,” Tom says. “It's the start of our new life.”

“Our new life together,” Sybil agrees, and tilts her head up to kiss Tom.

Sybil still feels flushed and warm when she slips back into bed. Branson is strangely reserved for a suffragette's son, but his kisses had grown heated before he reluctantly let go of her. Sybil hadn't wanted to stop. She doesn't think Branson did, either, but at times his sense of honour is matched only by his stubbornness. She feels almost feverish, twisting restlessly beneath the blankets.

Gwen shifts beside her, mostly asleep. “Go t'sleep,” she mumbles, reaching to still Sybil's tossing. She pushes up close behind Sybil, wrapping her arms around her and holding her still. “Just sleep,” she murmurs, against the back of Sybil's neck. After a moment, her breathing evens again, and Sybil is left alone, strangely aware of Gwen's body against her own. Her breasts feel heavy and warm against Sybil's back. The pressure of Gwen's arms banded about Sybil's waist is so strangely pleasant that it takes away Sybil's breath. Sleep does not come easily.

When Sybil wakes, Gwen is already up and dressed, drinking tea in the kitchen with Tom. They seem friendly enough, which eases a weight that Sybil hadn't even realized she'd been carrying. Sybil feels strange, unprotected in her new girdle and her simple cotton dress. She looks like a working-girl, which she doesn't mind particularly, but it is different.

“Are we all ready?” she asks, looking down at their nearly empty breakfast plates. Sybil is too nervous to eat, although she isn't certain why.

“Tom will walk us to the office,” Gwen says. “I needn't be at my position until after lunch, so I can stay until you're done speaking with the doctor.” She grins at Sybil, licking crumbs off her thumb. “It's going to be all right, you'll see.”

“I know it will,” Sybil says, with more confidence than she feels. But it makes Tom smile, and Gwen too, so that's all right.

There's something comfortingly familiar about Dr. Campbell's offices. It smells just like Dr. Clarkson's practice always did, something clean and astringent that tickles her nose. Everything about it is similar, from the aged wood panelling to the medical instruments neatly placed on trays. The doctor's office is a pleasant clutter of documents, his desk surrounded by tall, imposing bookshelves stuffed with volumes. Although many of them are medical texts, Sybil spies a large collection of three volume novels and a handful of philosophical treatises.

The doctor himself cuts a striking figure. He's tall and broad, with fair mutton chops and a surprisingly rakish head of pale hair. He has a deep, warm laugh and he uses it often, his cheeks going pink with the force of his mirth.

“Your reference does you a great deal of credit,” he tells Sybil, perching a tiny pair of spectacles upon his hawkish nose. “Dr. Clarkson speaks very highly of your abilities as a nurse, but are you a competent typist?”

“I am, and improving every day,” Sybil says honestly. She senses that this man does not appreciate simpering modesty. “And I've experience keeping order over the patients' documents. We dealt with quite a few soldiers during the war, and I managed the treatments for many of them. I could keep your papers well in order.”

Dr. Campbell chuckles, placing his glasses to the side. “I could do with some help there, as you can see. Yes, I would be very pleased if you were to accept the position.”

“Yes,” Sybil says, startled by the quick and firm response. “I'd be delighted.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Campbell says. “I shall be very pleased to see you at half past eight tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Sybil says, and she's almost shocked by the intensity of it. She means it.

And so the days fall into a routine. Every morning, they all walk together to Sybil's office, then Tom escorts Gwen to her place of work before making his way to his own. Every morning, Sybil watches the two of them walk off together, talking easily, and smiles. She likes seeing her two favourite people enjoying one another's company.

Gwen adjusts easily to her new job. The work is similar to her previous position, and she seems to make fast friends with some of the other girls. Gwen goes out with them on Friday evenings and always returns pink-cheeked, warm and cheerful. She doesn't invite Sybil along. Sybil would like to go, but she doesn't ask, because Gwen came here for her, and that's about all a person can ask of someone.

Branson seems to enjoy his work, too. He comes home every night brimming with stories, of the people he's met and the articles that everyone is working on. He never complains, but Sybil thinks that things are often much harder for him than they were at Downton. His hands are raw beneath the ink that seems always to stain them, and Sybil often cradles them in her own and just looks at them, wondering what Tom chooses not to tell her about his new work.

In the evenings, they join Dottie for a meal of meat and veg, or sometimes a pie if things are going very well. Sybil eats more cabbage than she'd expected to in a lifetime, and comes to sincerely appreciate those days when they find the money for a custard.

It isn't as hard as Sybil thinks her entire family thought it would be, adjusting to this new life. Sybil has experience with long hours from her war-time work. She's used to working hard for little reward, and so her pay is almost a surprise, every time it is given to her. She gets a thrill at the thought of earning her own keep. It's something she'd never considered as a child, but now she doesn't know how she could have lived her life without it.

Some things aren't so easy, though. Sybil's new job is in some ways very different from anything she's ever done before. Hardest is the sitting attentively for hours on end, even when there are no tasks left for her to perform. She finds herself developing a growing ache in the centre of her back, one that Branson tries to place careful, ink-stained hands on, every night after Gwen and Dottie have gone to bed. It still pains her, though. Her hands are growing calloused, too. It surprises Sybil at first, because she isn't doing any sort of manual labour Still, she is unused to the hours that she spends typing up documents. The clacking of the typewriter becomes such a part of her life that it even invades her dreams, until Gwen soothes her with a sleepy touch and it fades away.

And so, the days pass. They work, they eat, they huddle under their blankets and sleep. Tom is still the soul of honour, and Sybil still wishes he wasn't. Gwen still makes Sybil's chest feel too tight, although she couldn't say why if her life depended upon it. The political troubles continue, and the streets are frightening after dark. Dottie sits in her old rocking chair with its ancient velvet pillow and reads Mary Wollstonecraft, taking it all in. Things take on a sort of pattern for Sybil.

Then, one Friday night, Gwen doesn't come home at her usual time. She is nothing if not dependable, so Sybil is worried almost immediately. Still, she makes herself wait until another half an hour passes before she queries Branson.

“I agree, it's unusual,” he replies. Dottie doesn't say anything, but her brow is drawn. She stares at the faded patterning on the wall, rocking slowly in her chair. “But it hasn't been so long,” Branson adds, his voice quietly reassuring. “Perhaps she and her friends are unaware of the time. It's not as though she ever told us exactly when to expect her.”

“I think she'd have said if she planned to be later than usual,” Sybil says. “She wouldn't make us worry like this.”

“But if she didn't expect it,” Branson says gently. “Don't fret before we're given any reason to be worried.”

“It's not that,” Sybil says, feeling unaccountably frustrated. “If we knew where she spends her time, we would be able to confirm that she's all right. What if she doesn't turn up? We would never know where to look. We could search for days and never find her.”

Branson frowns. “You're right. And I don't want to worry you, but with the soldiers as rough as they have been lately, I hate to sit here if she has gotten into some sort of trouble.”

Dottie's chair squeaks to a halt, her feet planted firmly on the ground. “I know where Gwen goes,” she says quietly. She is still staring at the wall, as though she is reluctant to tell them.

“You know?” Branson asks, sounding surprised. “She hasn't told either of us.”

“You young people,” Dottie says wryly. “You think we lose our wits the moment we reach middle age. But I see things, and I read about them too. Gwen knew that, and so she confided in me.”

“Go on,” Sybil says. “Tell us where she is.”

“It isn't far,” Dottie says. “A dinner club for ladies, called the Syracuse Club. You shall find the entrance in an alleyway just past the pub on High Street.”

“But why?” Sybil asks. “Why would Gwen hide this place from us? And why do you seem so gloomy about sharing it?”

“Because it is not my secret to tell,” Dottie says quietly, “Although I'm surprised you've not guessed already. The Syracuse Club is a meeting place for inverts.”

“But--” Sybil says, shocked, “But Gwen is a woman. She couldn't be an invert, surely. I've never heard of such a thing.”

“You thought only men could experience such a phenomenon?” Dottie asks. It comes out a bit sharply. “To me, that seems exceedingly unlikely.”

“I'm sorry,” Sybil replies, because the situation seems to warrant it. “I just, I didn't know.”

“No,” Dottie says. “You did not. But now you are aware, and you must decide what you will do about it.”

“I already know,” Sybil says, because where Gwen is concerned, there only ever is one option.

They don't say anything about it, after that. Branson takes down the club's address and hurries to fetch their coats. Sybil stands in the centre of the room not saying anything, just thinking. Her brain feels too full with this new realization, one which came as a shock but isn't truly so surprising. Sybil can't help but imagine Gwen, kissing another woman the way Sybil kisses Tom. She thinks of Gwen after she comes home from her club, flushed and happy, and wonders exactly what Gwen does there. It makes her pulse run fast, and suddenly those feelings that Sybil couldn't but a name to begin to take shape.

Then Tom is back, coats in hand, and they're hurrying out the door, taking swift steps with their arms hooked together. Sybil is grateful for Tom, always but especially now. She likes the warm weight of him beside her, solid despite her inner turmoil. She walks a little faster, and he matches her pace without comment.

A block away from High Street, it become apparent that something is wrong. It's not a riot yet, but the potential is there, uniformed soldiers chasing a handful of frightened people down the street, broken glass crunching beneath Sybil's boot. The air is thick and noxious, heavy with the smell of something burning. They huddle into the shadows, looking fearfully down the alleyway where Gwen's club is located.

It's gone. There's nothing left of what was once a handsome brick building but a mess of smouldering stone, wooden timbers blackened and splintered around it. The flames still lick upward, but they seem to have been contained before they could reach any other buildings on the street. Still, it's enough to light the sky in wavery beams of burnt orange. People are crying, shouting questions to anyone who will listen. Sybil feels ill.

There's a group of men and women huddled not far away, watching the wreckage burn itself out with weary eyes. Branson tugs Sybil over toward them.

“Was anyone hurt?” he asks. Sybil is surprised to hear a tremor in his voice.

“Some of the boys got roughed up,” one of the women replies, “But we all got out before those bastards set the blaze.” She rubs at a stubborn bit of soot on her wrist. “They can try all they like, they won't get us.”

“You're very strong,” Branson says quietly, and turns back to Sybil. “We need to find her.”

“Lot of girls ran off toward the Crossings,” the woman offers. “If you're looking for a like-minded friend, I'd try there.”

“Thanks ever so,” Sybil says gratefully, and they set off again.

They are silent on this next leg of their walk, both scanning the darkened streets. Somehow, though, Sybil misses any sign until she's walking right into Gwen, her hair tousled and smoke-grimed, her eyes wide with fear.

Gwen starts back in surprise, caught mid-dash. “What-- what are you doing here?” Gwen asks. She doesn't sound relieved, she sounds terrified.

“We came for you,” Sybil says, and drags her into a hug. Gwen's forehead bears a vast, ugly bruise, and her knuckles are bloodied. “We came to find you.”

“Are you--” Gwen's voice trails off. She's muffled against Sybil's neck, but Sybil doesn't want to let go of her. “Are you angry with me? Are you going to have me committed?”

“No!” Sybil cries. “No,” she tries again, more calmly. “You've done nothing wrong. I'm only sorry you had to hide it from me. I'm sorry that I didn't understand.” She turns to Branson, waiting.

“In Russia,” Tom says quietly, “The Bolsheviks decriminalized inverted behaviour almost two years ago. I drank a toast to them, when I found out. I-- I didn't know that women...” he trails off. “I don't see that it should make any difference, if you're man or woman.” He steps hesitantly forward, and then he's hugging Gwen too.

“Then it's settled,” Sybil says. “Nobody is angry with anyone else. Can we all go home now?”

Gwen laughs, weak but genuine. Sybil slips her fingers into Gwen's, then reaches for Tom with her other hand, and they go home.

At home, Sybil takes Tom by the arm and leads him up to her room. “It's not a night to be alone,” she says, quieting his murmurs about propriety. Gwen makes to leave the room, mumbling an excuse, but Sybil catches her arm, too. “No,” she says quietly. “We all stay together.” She hasn't really thought this out, but it feels incredibly right, as she's saying it.

“You love me, Gwen. I know it, and I love you too, as you well know. And,” she pauses, considering. “I didn't know what that meant, before, but now that I know that you love women as others love men, I think I can understand it a little bit better. It makes me begin to understand what I feel for you. Tom, I'm to be your wife, and I could not be happier. But, you must know that I could not be asked to choose between you.” She feels a sudden surge of anxiety, but quells it, forcing herself to look up at both of them, her two lovers, if they'll have her. To her surprise, when Tom speaks, it's not to her but to Gwen.

“I know you are not inclined toward male lovers,” he says quietly. “I do not want to attempt to sway you, because I think it would be wrong and unnecessary. But I think we share a love, and in service of that, I think we could come to love one another. Do you think so?”

Gwen stands up straight, gazing easily back at Tom. “Yes,” she says softly, “Yes I think we could.”

Later, Sybil will marry Tom in a tiny church, wearing a dress that in her old life, she never would have considered finery. A daguerreotypist will capture a severe image of them in shades of grey, Tom standing slightly above and behind her, their hands tightly clasped. This is the image that she will send to her family at Downton, for them to make of it as they will. However, Sybil will always consider this night her true wedding night, as she binds all three of their hands together and kisses them both. Branson is slow and reverent as he touches her, and Gwen laughs and tells him to hurry up already, and when he doesn't, she laughs again and helps him. Sybil sighs, and makes a few other noises, and gazes through half-closed eyes, watching her two lovers together.

Afterward, Sybil stretches out her arms under the quilt, encountering first the soft smoothness of Tom's hair, then the curve of Gwen's cheek. Although she'd be content to stay in this moment forever, she knows the world won't stop spinning. They will still work until their fingers ache, all of them, and it still won't be quite enough. Her dresses will wear out and she will have to patch them, for she can no longer afford to buy new clothes on a whim. She will have to keep eating cabbage, even though she is so terribly tired of it. Pudding will more often be a dream than a reality. Outside, the war will continue to rage, and it may become much worse before it gets any better. Some days she will have to be afraid, for her life, for her lovers', and her family, and for her new home. For now, though, warm and safe and surrounded by those who love her, Sybil feels she has everything she could possibly want.


End file.
